Pendragon's Banner: Book Two of the Pendragon's Banner Trilogy

Author

OCTOBER 459

WITH AN EXHAUSTED GRUNT OF EFFORT, ARTHUR, THE PENDRAGON, RAISED his sword and with a deep intake of breath brought it down through the full force of weight and momentum into the skull of an Anglian thegn. Another battle. Arthur was four and twenty years of age, had been proclaimed Supreme King over Greater and Less Britain three years past by the army of the British—and had been fighting to keep the royal torque secure around his neck ever since.

The man crumpled, instantly dead. Arthur wrenched his blade from shattered bone and tissue with a sucking squelch, a sickening sound, one he would never grow used to. Oh, the harpers told of the glories of battle, the victory, the brave daring and skill—but they never told of the stench that assaulted your nostrils, bringing choking vomit to your throat. Nor of the screams that scalded your ears, nor the blood that clung foul and sticky and slippery to hands and fingers or spattered face and clothing.

He turned, anxious, aware that a cavalryman was vulnerable on the ground. His stallion was somewhere to the left, a hind leg injured. The horses. Hah! No harper, no matter how skilled, could ever describe the sound of a horse screaming its death agony. There was no glory in battle, only the great relief that you were still alive when it was all over.

Sword ready to strike again, Arthur found with a jolt of surprise that there was no one before him, no one to fight. Eyebrows raised, breathless, he watched the final scenes of fighting with the dispassionate indifference of an uninvolved spectator. No more slopping and wading through these muddied, sucking water-meadows; the Angli were finished, beaten. The rebellion, this snatching of British land that was not theirs for the taking, was over.

The Anglian leader, Icel, had wanted to be more than a petty chieftain over a scatter of huddled, backwater settlements, and that wanting had plunged deep—deep enough for him to unite the English warbands. Fighting against the British had been sporadic at first, skirmishes, night raids, and isolated killings. Arthur had not been King then, when Icel began making a nuisance of himself, but when the Pendragon bested Hengest the Saxon, away down to the south of Londinium, the army of Britain had acclaimed him as Supreme. And Icel sent word across the sea for his kinsmen to come with the next Spring, to come and fight this new-made King of the British who rode at the head of an elite cavalry force; to come and fight, for surely the victory over such a warlord would be worth the winning! The damn thing had grumbled on through the roll of seasons ever since.

Those Anglians able to run or walk or crawl were escaping, running away to die or survive within the safe, enveloping darkness of fastcoming evening. It was over. After all these long, weary months, over. Until the next uprush of the Saex-kind tried for the taking of more land, or some upstart son of a British chieftain fancied for himself the command of supreme rule.

With slow-expelled breath, the Pendragon lowered his sword and unbuckled the straps of his helmet, let them dangle free, his face stinging from the release of the tight, chaffing leather. He was tired. By the Bull of Mithras, was he tired! Arthur stabbed his sword-blade into the churned grass and sank to his knees. His fingers clasped the sword's pommel as he dropped his forehead to rest on his hands, conscious suddenly of the great weariness in his arms and legs and across his neck and shoulders. It had been a long day, a long season. He was bone tired of fighting and this stink of death. He had a wife, two sons born, another child on the way; he needed to be with them, establishing a secure stronghold fit for a king and his queen; making laws and passing judgements—raising his sons to follow after him. A king needed sons. Llacheu would reach his fourth birthday next month…Arthur had hardly seen his growing; the occasional few days, a passing week. He needed Gwenhwyfar, but she was to the north more than a day's ride away at Lindum Colonia, uncomfortable in her bulk of child-bearing. Love of Mithras, let it be a third son!

Movement. Arthur opened his eyes but did not lift his head. Two booted feet appeared in his lowered line of vision, the leather scratched and spotted with the staining of blood. He would recognise those fine-made boots anywhere—the intricate patterning around the heel, the paler inlet of doe-hide. He looked up with a spreading grin of triumph into his cousin and second-in-command's face. Cei, wiping sweat and the spatter of other men's blood from his cheeks, grinned back, his teeth gleaming white behind the darkness of his stubble-bearded face. For a while and a while the two men stood, grinning at each other like inane moon-calves.

That is it then, Arthur said, climbing slowly to his feet and pulling his sword from the ground. It felt heavy to his hand now the fighting was done. Happen we can think about going home to our women and families.

Cei shrugged a noncommittal answer. If God was willing, they could go home soon. When the dead were buried and the wounded tended, the submissions concluded, hostages taken and the King's supremacy over these Saex scum endorsed. When the grumbling and muttering from the British, discontent with Arthur's objectives were silenced. Aye, happen then, they could.

Arthur bent to wipe his blade against the tunic of a dead Anglian lying face down in the blood-puddled, muddied grass. He gazed at the man's back a moment, with his foot turned over the body. A boy, not a man, with only the faint shadow of hair on his chin and upper lip. A boy who had listened to the harper's tales of battle and had felt his heart quicken for the excitement and honour. Who knew nothing of the reality of this goddamned mess! Sons were needed to fight with their fathers. And to die alongside them. The harpers ought sing of that! Sing of the cruelty of losing a beloved son—the pain of wounds that were beyond healing. Arthur sighed. So many sons and fathers dead. So much spilt blood.

He pulled the spear that had killed the boy from the body. Said with regret, We ought to live together in peace, Cei. Angli, Jute, and Saxon in peace aside us British. Surely there is enough land for us all to build our dwelling places, enough grass to graze our cattle?

He bent to close the boy's staring, frightened eyes. Why must strength be shown by the blade of a sword? Why not through discussion and wise talk?

A voice answered from behind, the accent guttural, the words formed in hesitant Latin. Because you and I were born to different ideas and beliefs, my Lord King. Differences breed mistrust and suspicions, which spread like weeds in a neglected cornfield. Fear—and greed—grows unchecked until eventually it rots into swollen lies and black untruths. Overspills onto a battlefield.

Arthur remained squatting over the dead boy, wiped his hand across his face, fingers firm against nose, across cheeks, down to the stubble on his chin. Wiped away this seeping mood of bleak depression. He jerked upright, turning with the same movement to clap his hand to the newcomer's shoulder, announced with a smile as broad as a furrowing sow's belly, But you and I, Winta of the Humbrenses, you and I think differently!

The answering smile was as friendly, as astute. If we did not my Lord, then would I fight beneath your Dragon against English kinsmen?

Sliding his arm full around the man's shoulders, Arthur began to steer the tall, fair-haired man towards the northern end of the battlefield, to where, beyond a clump of wind-moulded trees, the British had set their camp. To where the Saxon prisoners would soon be herded and forced to kneel before a British king.

Some of us, Arthur said, walking with long strides, keeping Winta close by the grip of his hand on the man's arm, have found enough sight and wisdom to see beyond the differences, to learn of them with interest and intelligence. Some of us, he repeated, patting the man's shoulder for good measure, are astute enough to go into the fields and hoe the weeds. We, my friend, prefer to see the gold of ripening corn.

Arthur halted, beckoned his cousin to walk at his other side. Some weeds, though, can be cultivated, used for good purpose. Can they not, Cei?

Cei was scowling slightly, saying nothing. To his mind all weeds ought to be pulled up and burnt. He shrugged, non-committed. He disliked—no, mistrusted—Winta, a petty lord over a scattering of Saex settlements along the southern shore of the Abus river. Weeds were weeds, whatever their brilliance of flower or healing use. Angli? Jute? Ally, enemy?

Saex were Saex, whatever their given title and declared promises!

ALTHOUGH THE WATER WAS NOT AS WARM AS SHE WOULD HAVE LIKED, Gwenhwyfar elected to stay a while longer in the main pool of Lindum's only remaining bathhouse. Enid was already out, wrapping a linen towel around her body before seeing to Llacheu. The boy was crying, standing beside the nurse, his little face scrunched up, pathetically unhappy. He wanted to stay in longer, too, wanted to stay in the water with his mam. Enid, though, was a no-nonsense young woman, more than capable of dealing with recalcitrant children. Briskly, efficiently, she swept a towel around the boy, scooped him under her arm, and bore him away to the changing room, his protesting wail trailing in their wake.

Gwenhwyfar laughed to herself, swam a few strokes from the pool edge, and then turned on her back, arms outstretched, head back, her copper-gold hair floating about her like the tresses of legendary sea-maids. She had the place to herself at this fresh hour of the morning, a trick she had learned early on in her stay in this inhospitable, dilapidated Roman town. Her belly rippled, the child within moving, the great bulge of late pregnancy standing like a whale-hump from the water; she felt like a whale, too. A beached, blubber-weighted whale. Voices were approaching, the patter of bare feet slapping on tiled flooring, the rise and fall of female gossip. One voice in particular stood out speaking in tidy, correct Latin, with a nasal twang and a laugh like a sow's grunt. Swimming to the steps, the luxury of solitude receding, Gwenhwyfar ascended, draped rough woven linen towelling about her shoulders and marched through the approaching group of women, ignoring their sudden cessation of chatter and disapproving looks, aware that one of them would make comment.

Bathing naked in your condition, Madam, is indecent. There should be modesty at all times in a public place. The Governor's matronly wife wore a thigh-length tunic, her hair bound tight about her head. The other women were dressed similarly, or wore breast-bands and loin cloths. The woman, a self-opinionated bore, wrinkled her nose, disgusted, at the swell of Gwenhwyfar's belly and breasts.

Several scathing retorts flooded Gwenhwyfar's mind, but she swallowed them. As Queen she could do something to silence the more offensive remarks, but Arthur had expressed an explicit plea: I leave you in Lindum to play the part of diplomacy. Where the Queen is, they are reminded of the King. And I do not want them reminded of the wrong things.

I have to be civil to them then?

Very civil.

Even to the Governor's wife?

Especially to the Governor's wife.

Damn the Governor's wife—and damn Arthur! It was all right for him—he had stayed but one night and then ridden off with his men, the proud cavalry of the Artoriani. Gwenhwyfar had no choice in the matter. The coming babe forced her to stay in this decaying town with its crumbling, grumbling citizens. And so today she remarked pleasantly, and with her hand on her bulge, Yet pregnancy is such a wondrous miracle. Should we hide the generous blessings of God?

She managed to hide a broadening smile of triumph as she pushed through the group of women and made her way to the changing rooms where Llacheu was still fitfully wailing.

Vigorously, angrily, she towelled herself dry, rubbed her hair, shaking it, fluffing the curls with her fingers. Dressed, she suggested to Llacheu, who had ceased his crying now she was also out of the pool, that they stop at the bathhouse shop to purchase a pastry before going back to the Governor's palace. It was the last place she truly wanted to go—but then she wanted to go nowhere in this damned town. The lad crowed his delight and swarmed into her arms for an extravagant cuddle. Ah, what did those foul women matter when she had her sons with her? And Arthur would be back soon. She hoped.

Until the tenth hour, the bathhouse was for women to use; the morning was gathering stride, and more customers were entering. Most at least nodded a courteous greeting to their King's wife, a few gazed past her, but none would dare be as outwardly rude as the Governor's wife. This growing ripple of hostility towards Gwenhwyfar was permeating through Lindum as powerfully as the stench that rose from the disintegrating main sewer. Narrow-eyed glares, a refusal to meet Gwenhwyfar's eyes, men and women who crossed the roads to the far pavement rather than meet her; that she was not welcome—within the public bathhouse, in this town—had been made more than plain since the day of her arrival. That Arthur was mistrusted to the point of dislike, as evident. And these as yet unspoken feelings were maturing and swelling like a water-bloated corpse.

The entrance to the baths had lost the opulence of its former glory. The colonnades were cracking, the once vivid mosaic flooring faded and with pieces, large patches in places, missing. Few people noticed. The whole town was in a like state. Houses falling down, shops empty and shuttered, weeds growing through the cracked pavements and roads. Gwenhwyfar bought Llacheu his pastry, and one for herself and Enid. They were hungry, having left their rooms in the palace before breaking their fast.

As they walked obliquely across the square from the baths, Gwenhwyfar stopped, as was her habit, to admire the statue at the centre. It was bronze, life-size, of a rider sitting proud astride a prancing horse. The white marble inlaid eyes had gone, and the inscription was too faded to read—Gwenhwyfar had made enquiries, but no one knew who the rider was. A Caesar certainly, for he wore a circlet of laurel around his head and looked a noble man, very wise. Too perfectly beautiful to be real. Arthur was more rugged, with his long, straight nose, dark eyes, and slightly curled hair that often looked as if it needed a comb tugged through it. The horse, though, was glorious: a well-bred animal of desert stock, its quality made obvious by the arched neck, concave face, small pricked ears, and high-arched tail. Gwenhwyfar could almost imagine the horse leaping from the marble plinth and galloping off across the square and out, under the north gate…ah, but she would like to gallop, escape with him! Where would they go? South, to join Arthur? Or west to the land of her birth? To Gwynedd, where the mountains would be green, cloud-wraithed, and beautiful? There was nowhere of her own to go, no home, no settled Hall or stronghold. Arthur had not had the time to find a good place, to build, to establish himself. Always, there was fighting, this incessant fighting!

Llacheu wanted to pat the horse, so Enid lifted him. The square was filling now, traders setting up their stalls for the day, shops opening their shutters, the smell of cooking from the inns strong in the air. People were starting their day, hurrying about their tasks—shopping, business. A group of boys swaggered past, calling loudly to each other, their slates tucked beneath their arms on their way to the school-tutor.

Gwenhwyfar sighed, indicated they must rejoin her bodyguard who had waited patiently in the early morning pale-fringed sunshine for their lady. She hated Lindum Colonia. And, on occasion, hated Arthur for leaving her here. She reached up to touch the bronze muzzle of the horse, and caught her breath as something whistled past her ear, struck the statue with a resounding thwack, and fell to the ground. She moved away, without fuss indicated her men ought to draw nearer. With dignity she left the square and made her way back to the safe confines of the palace.

Enid knew there was something wrong, but then Enid knew her mistress well, and had also heard the thrown stone, had seen it fall and settle there on the worn paving.

COUNCIL WILL NOT LIKE IT."

I do not ask for, nor want, Council's opinion.

Cei sighed; three years as King, and already Arthur and his Council were squabbling like dogs after the same bone.

There are those, Cei tried again, who say that to spend more than a week discussing treaties of alliance with a defeated enemy is not good judgment.

Arthur, mending a broken bridle strap, made no answering comment. The hail that had sputtered on and off all day drummed a tattoo on the roofing of the leather tent and bounced like tossed pebbles on the worn, hollowed patch of mud-packed turf by the open entrance flap.

Watching the pea-sized balls of ice a moment, Cei stared, fascinated as the ground turned white—then the sudden-come storm ceased. The wind whipped up the dark clouds and sent them scurrying from a dazzling blue sky. Beyond the tent, everything dripped and gleamed, the white ice melted into fairy-sized diamond-drops.

For Hengest, Cei continued as if he had not ceased talking, Council could see reason behind the giving of territory. Wrong or right, he had been originally invited here to fight on our side by Vortigern—God rot his mouldering soul.

I did not give, Arthur interrupted. I rent Hengest those Cantii lands, rent for a large payment of taxation. He rules under my gaze and is ultimately answerable to me. As Icel shall be when he edges around to seeing reason.

Fah! Cei swarmed to his feet, toppling his stool backwards. Reason? It is already reasonable that he still has his head and balls; it is already reasonable that those who follow him are alive, not dangling at the end of ropes!

Quietly, Arthur finished the mending of the strap, fixed it back to the bridle. So I have Icel executed? And then one day, one day very soon, these Anglian settlers will find for themselves another cock-proud young princeling to follow and we will then need to fight them. He stood, hung the bridle on a nail jutting from the tent pole, faced his cousin and second-in-command with outspread hands.

I have shadow-chased this Anglian leader from the Treanta river to the coast, from the Fosse Way down to the forests. If I grant a legitimate holding of land then Icel is beholden to me. And whenever a new cub decides he wants more than a ploughed field to crow over, he will first have to square that wanting with Icel, not with me.

Pouting, Cei answered, Too much is being given to these damn Saex. The Council of Britain do not like it. His thoughts added, Neither do I.

Arthur grinned, irritatingly friendly, knowing full well those unspoken thoughts. Ah, but then I am the King; a king is expected to do things that are not liked. His grin broadened. A prerequisite of the position. The ability to annoy.

Cei grunted. Oh aye, you have a talent for rubbing people the wrong way. Always have done, even as a child.

Arthur laughed to hide the bitter memory of his unpleasant childhood. The difference between being a boy and a man was acute. As a child, thought to be the bastard brat of a serving girl, Arthur had nothing to call his own save a battered gold ring, a dream, and a hope of better things to come. Ill-treated, shunned, and tormented by all adults except the man who later proved to be his true father, childhood had been miserable and corrupted by fear. He accepted, now he was grown, that Uthr Pendragon had to keep his only son hidden from Vortigem's ugly malice. Accepted that, but not the cruelties his real mother had deliberately turned her eyes from. Cei's idle comment hurt. He had tried to please, tried to do right, but still received cuffs and kicks, was still called bastard. Well, it was his turn now to do the kicking, and if men called him a bastard, it was for the other meaning of the word.

He poured wine for himself and Cei, said nothing more of the subject. Cei had always been the jealous one. Understandably. The one thing that had made life tolerable for Arthur as a child was the interest Uthr had shown in him—he had not known why, then. Why Uthr himself taught a bastard-born to use shield and spear and sword. Why Uthr himself had taught a supposed serving girl's brat how to ride a horse and plan for battle. Why Uthr had loved a fatherless whore's cub above the older boy, Cei, his brother's son. Arthur handed the goblet to his cousin. I intend to squeeze everything I can from Icel. Gold, leather, grain. Hostages. He will find submission hard.

Righting the stool, Cei seated himself again. What if he does not agree to your demands, eh? He might not.

Arthur sat also, pushing his booted feet nearer the fluctuating warmth of the brazier. Two nights until Samhain, the night the dead walked. He would rather be tucked within the warmth of Gwenhwyfar's bed at Lindum by then. Icel was a proud man, would welcome death; even the threat of the living death of blinding and male mutilation would not daunt him. There would have to be something more, some promise of what Arthur would do if the Anglian did not offer total submission. The Pendragon had once made such a thing clear to Hengest, and then not so long since, to Winta of the Humbrenses.

Your people and your family shall pay for defeat. The men will lose their hands and eyes, the women and children will be taken into slavery, used as whores. Until natural death releases them, they will face great misery and suffering. Your settlements will be burnt, and your cattle slaughtered. Not you. You will be taken to a fortress far away. You will be guarded, but you will have light and warmth and the best food; a comfortable bed, even a woman to share that bed. On fine days you will be allowed to ride and hunt, you will be treated as an honoured guest with no privilege spared, save that of your freedom to leave. And while you live in this luxury, you will think of your wife and your children. Of their distress and pain.

Winta had seen the sense in not trying his luck against this British lord who meant every word he said, for Winta was not full of greed and wanting as Hengest had been, and was older and wiser than the young coxcomb Icel. He valued too highly all that could be lost were victory not to come his way, and so had not even tried for the winning of it. By joining with the Pendragon his reward had proved great and welcome. Winta was already a wealthy man, and by uniting with the British, trade that was already flourishing would increase— double, treble. Soon he would be able to extend his held land, amicably, with Arthur's consent and permission, for Winta was wily enough to realise that there was more than one way to obtain a title of king.

Arthur's servant came to light the lamps. Soon it would be time for the officers to gather again around the fire, laid in the space beyond this tent between the sacred place where the standards of the Turmae and the Pendragon's own banner stood. Time to have Icel brought before them, and watch his eyes as the King declared his final word.

Leaning sideways and reaching for the wine, Arthur refilled his goblet, passed the jug across to Cei. Icel's wife and children? he asked, although he knew the answer.

Are held two mile from here.

Have them fetched up after dark has fallen. Bring them in bound and chained.

Cei scowled displeasure. The youngest is a girl child of four summers. Even her?

The Pendragon sipped his wine. Four summers, the age of his own son. He shrugged. War was a bloody, distasteful business. Especially her.

He regarded Cei with the expression that was a part of Arthur as much as his long nose and golden torque—one eyebrow raised, the other eye half closed: a look of warning. He would be obeyed.

’Tis you who says I must obtain results. I cannot afford to be squeamish, Cei. Have men who are not of the Christian faith bring them, who will not balk should I need to order Icel's family stripped and passed around the tents this night. He raised one finger, stopped the comment rising on Cei's lips. And again, aye, the youngest as well. Icel must bow to me. Or pay the price.

NOVEMBER 459

REMOVING HER FOOT FROM THE CRADLE'S ROCKER, GWENHWYFAR LAID ASIDE her distaff, mindful of the unspun wool. It was cheap, coarse stuff, full of snags; of little use for weaving anything of quality—it would suffice for the coming baby. Beyond the unshuttered windows daylight was fading into a murky evening. Night seemed to fall slowly here above the fenlands, descending ponderous like a flock of uncertain wild geese, circling and circling those vast, empty skies before finally plucking courage to land. She sighed, long and slow, and walked to the window, easing the ache in her back. A boring, dull landscape spreading beyond the enclosing walls of Lindum. Empty marshland, empty sky. Empty houses and empty-minded people.

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Arthur had been gone so long! Moving back to the cradle where her second son slept, she wrapped her arms around herself and rocked it absently with her foot. Gwydre was getting too big for a cradle, would need to move to a bed when the new babe came. Glancing again out of the window, she watched a heron flap lazily against the backdrop of blue-grey, rain-spattered sky. The year before, and for years before that, she had accompanied the Artoriani, making herself useful among the wounded, for wherever there was fighting there would always be the wounded. This year she was here in this town, an unwilling and unwelcome guest.

Lindum Colonia stood, a defiant bastion of Roman culture, caught between the people of the Humbrenses to the north, and persistent harassing from the Anglians of the southeast. There had been sporadic fighting between British and Saxon in and around this marshy corner of Britain for years—even before Rome had pulled out her Legions to fight her own death struggle. Skirmishes and ambushes, farmsteadings and villas looted and burnt, men slaughtered, women and children taken as slaves. Atrocities committed and suffered on both sides.

Arthur had been forced to prove himself against these Saex—aye, and the British—that he was, and would remain, supreme. Prove that he was a worthwhile king. Gwenhwyfar stayed with her husband until the sickness and discomfort of this pregnancy became overmuch to bear, then, reluctant, Arthur had brought her away from his army to leave her here in Lindum.

From her second-floor window she could see two of the narrow, cobbled streets and a small part of an intersecting third. Dark, gloomy places at the best of times, sinister at the moment, with the onset of this half-light of evening. There were people down there, angry people, milling around the palace walls, filling those dark, narrow streets with their ugly shouting and malicious presence. A mob hammering on the gates, demanding their grievance be heard. Where in the Bull's name was Arthur?

It was against him they jeered, cursing his name and yelling disgusting ways to bring about his end. The mistrust of the previous uneasy days had overspilled into rage and derision, fuelled by fear. For rumours had come, brought by traders from the south, mischief-makers. There had been a battle they said, a great battle, for they had seen the churned battlefield and the mounds of the dead. They knew nothing more, save that Icel was returning to his homesteading, gloating that he now had land to call his own. And what of Arthur, Lindum asked. Where was he? Why had no official word come to confirm or deny the tale? There could only be one reason why: a reason Gwenhwyfar would not, could not contemplate.

She thought back to the day Arthur had departed, that sun-bright August morning, through the north gate, escorted by his personal guard with their padded tunics white-brilliant beneath their scarlet-red, woollen cloaks. A bustling eastern sea wind had spilled through the gaping mouth of the tubular, red and gold Dragon causing it to leap and writhe as if it were alive. Gwenhwyfar had watched them leave from the defence wall walkway, watched as her husband rode away, weeks ago, to fight. She sighed. Ah, but it seemed years!

Word had come ten days past that Icel had summoned his men and the two armies had met. Ten days, with no more word beyond the rumours fanning like wind-whipped fire across dry grass, and the mood in Lindum growing as ugly as those rumours. Arthur had lost, they said, the Pendragon had failed to turn Icel's army. Yet there had come no confirmation of British failure and death. Where in all the gods’ names was he? Gwenhwyfar again eased the incredible ache in her back, bending her spine to stretch the discomfort. The babe had his legs pressed there, so Enid told her. What did she know about the birthing of babes? She was a child's nursemaid, and a maiden still!

The two boys, Gwenhwyfar had carried easily—disregarding those first few weeks of intermittent nausea—but with this pregnancy the sickness had barely stopped. She felt dizzy, her hands and feet were puffed and swollen. She wanted another son, but, by the Goddess of Wisdom, not this constant illness!

A while since the shouting of the mob had grown louder, turned to a hideous belling, a keening for the blood of death. It was becoming quite dark now. Walking from lamp to lamp, Gwenhwyfar lit the wicks, lit too, the beeswax candles. She would have light in her room, for light chased away the threatening shadows of fear, and tonight was Samhain, the night when the dead returned. She had no reason to fear the dead—her brother, her father, they would be welcome visitors—but if Arthur were indeed slain by Icel…!

She closed the woodworm-riddled shutters, hiding the night and muffling the noise of the angry town. Her hand flew to her throat as beyond the door a man's heavy tread approached, iron-trimmed boots scraping on the flagstones, stopping outside. It was not unexpected. They had come for her. She took Gwydre up from his sleep, stood facing the door, a hundred concerns whirling. What of her sons? Would the hate and the fear that Lindum showed for Arthur's policy of ceding territory to the Saex spill over to her sons? Would the resentment lead to the killing of the Pendragon's children also? She held the boy over her shoulder, her free hand drawing her dagger. Had they slaughtered Llacheu already? Mithras! Knowing this rising mood, she ought to have had his supper sent up here, not let him go to the kitchens. She had not thought! Had assumed the crowd would be contained beyond the palace walls, assumed the Governor would not give in to their demands, that she was safe.

The latch began to move upward. Gwenhwyfar took firmer hold of the dagger—kill her they might, but not without their own shed blood! The door opened, creaking on its rusting hinges. A man, stubble-bearded face smeared with dust, clothes grimed and muddied, entered the room, his sword coming into his hand as he stepped across the threshold.

HER HEAD SWAM. GWENHWYFAR STUMBLED TO HER KNEES, CATCHING HER son tighter to her shoulder, struggling for breath. Someone took the child, who wailed loud protest, then arms were around her—strong, protective arms clad in what had once been a white tunic, his red cloak flung back.

Cymraes! Arthur stroked her hair with agitated concern, cradled his wife to him. What is wrong? Does the birthing come?

Laughing, crying, both at once, Gwenhwyfar shook her head and clung to her husband. She wiped aside scudding tears, looked up with a smile into his anxious dark eyes, laughed at her own foolishness. I thought they had come to kill me.

Arthur grinned astonished amusement. He brought Gwenhwyfar to her feet, set her on the couch, and passed Gwydre, wailing louder, back to her. When you so often defy me to go your own sweet way, then aye, I feel like wringing your pretty neck. His fingers moved around her throat, lightly touching the soft, unblemished skin. He bent to kiss the throbbing pulse. "But having ridden hard for several hours in a bitter wind, absent all these weeks bringing Icel firm to the leash, then na, I can think of no reason to do away with you." He held her close a long while, savouring her warmth and the scent of woman and baby, easing her violent trembling. Unusual for Gwenhwyfar to take such fright, but understandable, given her condition.

A discreet knocking at the door was followed by the raucous bellow of an annoyed child. Llacheu burst in with Enid trotting behind apologising profusely for the intrusion. The boy ran to his father, arms outstretched. Releasing his wife, Arthur turned to scoop his son into his arms, Llacheu instantly hurling questions like shot arrows. Have you been in battle? Did you kill many Saex? Tell me, Da!

"Is this my son? Na, this lad is too tall!" Arthur held the lad high, at arm's length

I am, Da, I am!

"Na. Llacheu was knee-high to a hound when I last saw him. You are almost a man grown!"

The boy swelled with pride at his father's attention and teasing. Mam's teached me to sword fight!

Bending over the cradle to resettle Gwydre, Gwenhwyfar corrected, "Teaching, lad. I have been teaching you to sword fight."

The excited boy ignored her. Shall I show you, Da? He squirmed out of his father's arms and ran to fetch his little wooden sword.

Laughing, Arthur strolled across the room and retrieved his own sword and scabbard that he had dropped in his haste to run to Gwenhwyfar's aid. He placed it on a table and seated himself on the couch. Stretching his aching thighs and back, he watched his son, busy burrowing among the childhood clutter sprawled over the floor. Llacheu pulled out his toy from beneath a bundle of wool, sending his mother's distaff clattering across the floor.

Oh Llacheu! she scolded. Look what you have done! Gwydre was passed to Enid as Gwenhwyfar strode across the room to retrieve her spoilt wool, to pick with dismay at the knots and tangles. It took me ages to work all that! she wailed.

Arthur ruffled the boy's hair. Were you aware that your mam is more at ease sword fighting than spinning?

With wide, innocent eyes the lad answered, The Governor's wife said a lady need not know how to use a man's sword. Mam laughed at her and said even a gutter whore knows how to use such a delight to her advantage. As he innocently repeated the adult conversation the boy gave a few ineffectual swipes with his toy. He looked up at his grinning father, said seriously, I am not sure what Mam meant, but I liked it because it annoyed the horrid woman.

Gwenhwyfar's cheeks had reddened at her son's repetition of her play on words—lewd words which she had assumed he would not overhear, let alone remember! Arthur roared his delight, briefly hugging his son to him as he winked at Gwenhwyfar. You’ll discover what your mam meant when you are a man grown and in full use of your own weapon.

Will I have a sword as wondrous as yours one day, Da? Llacheu parried and thrust with the wooden toy.

Arthur laughed the louder; Gwenhwyfar, attempting with not much success to keep her stern composure, stepped forward and took the toy from her son, chastising her husband with her eyes to remain quiet.

If you mean Caliburn, she said to Llacheu, I expect that particular sword will be yours when your da has no further need of it. She caught Arthur's eye and burst into laughter herself. Neither made verbal reference to the other meaning, but the mutual thought of pleasurable lovemaking after these months apart sped swift and unspoken between husband and wife.

Disturbed so roughly from his sleep, Gwydre was still sobbing. Gwenhwyfar asked Enid to take him to his wet nurse for feeding, and then to see about Llacheu's bedtime. With their going, the chamber fell into hushed quiet. Gwenhwyfar began to tidy Llacheu's scattered toys, a sewn ball, a carved boat, and told as she worked of the unsettled alarm within the city. How did you fare, riding in? The shouting seemed most hostile.

Standing and encircling her bulk with his arms, Arthur kissed her with a passion that revealed how he had missed her. Everything is settled, he said. The Governor of Lindum is a prize ass. He could no more stem malicious rumours than he could return Britain to Roman rule. He drew away, eyed her bulge, and patted the swelling with pride, then seating himself, began to tug off his left boot.

Gwenhwyfar kicked a scatter of wooden building bricks beneath the couch, and as an afterthought kicked the spoilt wool to join them. She squatted, pulled at Arthur's other boot. The resentment against you here frightens me.

Arthur scratched at the itch of his beard. He needed to shave. Would that statement have any connection with the dagger that greeted my return?

She tried to make light of the thing, waved her hands casually and shrugged. Retrieving the boot Arthur had tossed away, she stood it with its pair to the side of the couch. I finally told a few plain truths this afternoon, that is all. The Governor's wife did not much like hearing them.

For that, you think murder at the opening of a door! Arthur lay back, rested his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. It was good to be in the warm and dry. Good to feel a couch beneath your backside. He snorted at a passing thought: why did horsehair not feel as comfortable when it was still on the horse?

Gwenhwyfar had made no answer. He opened one eye and saw her squatting still on the floor. He reached a hand forward, stroked the smoothness of her cheek.

Has it been that bad for you here, Cymraes?

She took his hand in her own, held it against her cheek, her eyes closing against threatening tears. It had been that bad.

Ah, beloved. Arthur leant forward, placed a kiss on her forehead. It took longer than I anticipated; Icel is a strong and determined man. He again lay back. It took a time to convince him I am the stronger, and more determined.

Picking up her fallen distaff, Gwenhwyfar regarded the spoilt wool a moment before ripping it from the wooden haft. She poked it with the rest beneath the couch, and said, You have ceded him territory. As you did with Hengest?

Aye. And for the same valid reasons.

She flared. Valid reasons? Valid reasons! You spend all these months fighting Icel, losing men—good men—to his spears, and then after gaining the victory you calmly give him the land he's been after! She was walking about the room, hands animated, the distaff waving as she moved. Valid reason or no, Arthur, it makes no sense to me, nor, she pointed the distaff in the direction of the window, nor to the people out there. They, too, are frightened, and fear breeds anger.

Arthur was watching her from where he lay. How often had he listened to the same conversation? With Cei, with his officers. Not half an hour past with Lindum's Governor.

I give, Cymraes. There is a difference between giving to a man to rule over as your subject, and him taking it by force to rule as his own lord. I give on my terms. Not theirs. Mine.

Huh.

There's no ‘huh’ about it. He swung his legs to the floor, leant forward, one arm leaning across his thigh. They will come anyway, the Saex. Far better for the inevitable outcome to be on my saying.

For a moment she remained silent, letting the sudden eddy of anger flow from her. Calmer, for she knew him to be right, she said as he resettled himself, I think there are those in this town who plan to kill you. I thought they were to make their start on the boys and myself. She wiped aside an unexpected tear. Foolish of me, but…

Arthur tugged his fingers through the tangle of his collar-length dark-brown hair, scratched at an itch on the nape of his neck. A haircut would not fall amiss. Not so foolish. Half the country have such plans to make an end of me.

You know?

Eyes shut. Of course I know.

Gwenhwyfar still had the distaff in her hand. She lunged at Arthur, thwacked his shoulder with it.

Ow! He opened his eyes, sat up. What was that for!

For taking over-many risks with your life, my life, and the lives of our sons! She hit him again, harder. He laughed, grabbed at her weapon, and, holding it tight, pulled her closer.

You were safe enough. He gave a sudden tug at the distaff, toppling her off balance. They have not yet plucked the courage to defy their King, or his wife.

Falling across him, Gwenhwyfar swiped him with her hand.

However, he glanced about the room, I cannot say the same for myself, cannot guarantee your safety now. He kissed her, his tongue probing her mouth, hands fumbling for the pins holding her shift.

Attempting to squirm from his embrace Gwenhwyfar brushed her free hand over her huge figure. She wanted him so much, so very much, but said, We cannot, not with this babe.

Diverting the subject, she asked, Have you eaten? We dined some hours since, but I suspect I can fetch something…

Keeping firm hold of her, Arthur pulled her closer and nibbled her earlobe. Not for weeks.

She smiled. I meant food, you fool! Have you eaten food?

He narrowed his eyes, an idiotic grin smirking his expression. A banquet of flesh will suffice.

Ignoring his expressive leer, Gwenhwyfar began to unfasten the lacings of his riding gear, her nose wrinkling with distaste at the smell of stale sweat. You stink more of horse than the horse does!

That is unquenched desire you smell!

I cannot quench you with this babe so large inside me.

Not so, Arthur muttered, fondling her enlarged breasts. He chuckled as he thought of his son's innocent repetition of Gwenhwyfar's words. There are other ways of using a sword aside from thrusting straight in with the point.

They laughed together, Gwenhwyfar's arms coiling around Arthur as he kissed her again. She had a passing thought as he stripped away the last garment of her clothing and began gently caressing her swollen body: they ought to bolt the door. But then, who would be fool enough to disturb the King and his wife after they had been so long apart?

THE LAMPS IN THE BED CHAMBER WERE BURNING LOW, SEVERAL HAD GUTTED out. Gwenhwyfar lay asleep, her head on Arthur's chest, her coppergold hair spread in a tangle over her face and his shoulder. She twitched occasionally as some dream infringed on sleep. Once, she murmured something.

Arthur was awake, unable to sleep. He moved his arm, released a long sigh, puffing his cheeks with expelled air. The victory was his, Icel was undeniably beaten. But there would always be another Icel somewhere, other aspiring young men who would make a try for something more. At least there would be no more fighting in this flat, inhospitably windy part of Britain, not for a long while.

He watched Gwenhwyfar breathing. Watched the steady rise and fall of her pregnancy-swollen breasts and the relaxed peace on her face. She was one and twenty, and he had loved her—known her—for the past nine years. With his finger, he dabbed at the tip of her nose. She twitched, dreamily batted away the irritation with a limp hand.

Gwenhwyfar. I need to talk.

Mm? Not now. She shifted position. Slept.

Gwen.

In… yawn, …the morning.

It cannot wait until morning, Cymraes.

Gwenhwyfar groaned, opened her eyes. She wriggled from his arms and rolled out of the bed. You toad. Was it necessary to wake me?

Padding across the semidarkened room, she squatted over the chamber pot. It's not so much this bulk I have to carry, nor the pummelling against my ribs and spine as he stretches and kicks inside that makes me so loathe pregnancy, she shivered and scuttled back to the warmth of bed, but this damn need to pee so frequently!

Gwenhwyfar?

She had been settling down to sleep again, opened her eyes suspicious. I like it not when you say ‘Gwenhwyfar’ like that.

Arthur toyed with a strand of her hair. I have an offer of permanent alliance that I cannot refuse.

She regarded him steadily. His fringe, falling away from a natural side parting, flopped forward over his eye. Gwenhwyfar brushed it back, slid her hand around his neck. The slight curl to his hair was the more noticeable here at the back where the length, when he was dressed, rested against his tunic neckband.

There were the beginnings of shadowed lines to the corners of his eyes, light, like a little bird's delicate track. His face was thin, the cheekbones quite prominent aside his chin and long, straight nose. He looked tired.

In those dark eyes Gwenhwyfar saw uncertainty and doubt. Arthur excelled at keeping his thoughts close, his features passive and unreadable. To Gwenhwyfar alone he occasionally dropped the guarded mask, trusting her enough to allow the show of reality.

He was four and twenty, and he carried a weight of worries and problems that would have cowed a man twice his age.

Have you slept? she asked.

He shook his head.

Gwenhwyfar hesitated, thinking. She knew she was not going to like this offer, whatever it was. She ought to say something encouraging, but this was like picking at the end of a loose thread. You knew that to pull at it would unravel more and more of the weave, that it ought to be left alone or sewed secure, but the irresistible urge was there, your fingers just had to pick at it.

She said lightly, Who from?

Arthur pulled a strand of her hair through his fingers, watched its subtle change of colour in the feeble light.

An English rival to Icel. He has a flourishing settlement along the Humbrenses river. He scratched at his nose. He joined battle with me and has made offer to secure a lasting alliance.

Gwenhwyfar shifted weight from her elbow, lay down on her back. This leader of Saxons, is he a man of importance? There, another few handspans of thread unravelled.

English, these are English people, Gwen.

Gwenhwyfar shrugged, unimpressed. Saex, Angli, English, whatever. They are all foreigners and murdering sea-raiders.

Cymraes, Arthur plumped the pillow behind him, settled his back into it. Not all of them, and aye, Winta is important. He wants lasting peace between us.

The thread was unravelling faster, the weave disappearing before her eyes. Gwenhwyfar ought to leave this conversation, go back to sleep, but the thread slid so easily between her fingers. What! Peace? Is the Pendragon turning complaisant now that he has the royal torque, for a while longer, safe around his throat? Words spoken behind a weight of scorn.

Arthur sat forward hugging his knees, hurting. I have enough of that kind of talk from Cei and my uncle Emrys.

Happen because Cei and Emrys and I have reason to talk so. It was unreasonable for her to say that, but at this early hour of the morning and with great need to sleep, she was not feeling at all reasonable.

For answer, he slammed the mattress with his fist, spoke through clenched teeth. Why is it that people moan and wail and protest when I say we must fight—yet when I offer a sure way of avoiding the fighting, those same people complain I am becoming simple-minded! Can I not please anyone?

The weave was completely unravelled now. Gwenhwyfar sat up, moved a little away from him, her body straight, expression glaring. You intend to set Winta as another Saex client king. She spread her hands before her, emphatic and angry. You gave Hengest the Cantii territory, and now Icel has his own portion of land instead of losing his head. Arthur, no more! The Council out there, she flagged a hand in the direction of the closed door, your Governors and Elders are plotting to be rid of you because you are systematically parcelling out this country into barbarian rule. You have been King almost three years, and now seem determined to give your kingdom away. Our son's inheritance? Hah, there'll be nothing left!

Arthur grasped her waving arms, fingers digging into her flesh. His straight brows descended into a deep frown. I thought I would be able to talk to you about this! Thought you, at least, would understand what I am trying to do! Disgusted, he threw her from him and swung his legs off the bed. He sat a while breathing heavily, the surge of anger thumping in his chest.

Bringing his fingers over his eyes, and slowly down his cheeks, Arthur let his caught breath ease. With his face cupped between his hands said, I fought to win supreme command and I intend to keep it. But I cannot hold these desolate coastal lands, Gwenhwyfar. For all my fine, brave Artoriani, I cannot. I have not the men or the finance. Where do I find men to constantly patrol the run of rivers and the miles of seashore? Where do I, at the same moment, find other men to fight? Hengest, Icel, Winta—the many, many others of their kind—can call on ships to cross the sea to come and join them. Keel after keel of prime, young fighting men. What have I got? A few Turmae of loyal men, a handful of scattered militia who mostly do not know a pitchfork from a spear blade, and a pig-brained Council who harp on how it was in the old days of Rome!

His shoulders slumped, head drooped. He laced his fingers, swivelled the heavy dragon-shaped ring on his left index finger. Some of these English, men like Icel, are arrogant bastards who respect no word outside that of a war cry. A few, a very few, are like Winta, older and wiser men who can see the sense in avoiding the spilling of men's blood—British or English—if the opportunity is given.

He brought one leg over the other, rested an elbow on his knee, spoke with a mixture of resignation and anger. Bogs and quagmires trap my horses. Mud clings, tires, dispirits even the stoutest heart. I came over close to losing to Icel. He looked at her, held her eyes with his own. "Another few weeks, Cymraes, and